Le Plafond
by Rosa Marie
Summary: Really, it has absolutely nothing to do with Twilight. I just found my inspiration there. And I have no idea where I'm going with it in the longrun. Mon Dieu, bear with me!
1. Chapter One: Auberge de Mosaïque

**Chapter One: Auberge de Mosaïque**

She looked at me through frosted, stained glass eyes as she whispered, "the Mosaic Inn is no longer open."

My heart plunged down to my toes before the words ever reached my ears. I could see past the girl's thin silhouette that the inn, or at least, the remnants of the inn, was dark and bitter; the glorious, mahogany mantel that was implanted with gold was cracked and gloomy, the magnificent fire that once sustained its comfortable climate now permanently extinguished. I could feel the unfriendly chill of the wrecked inn creeping out to greet me, even colder than the inches of snow that I was situated in.

I wondered about the miniature Botticelli paintings that once adorned the high ceiling. I always loved a high ceiling, and I didn't know what kind of damage this one could have possibly withstood. The thought of it being injured even slightly projected thoughts of suicide. Honestly, I forced myself to believe that they remained unharmed, even in the midst of all the rupture inside the rest of the inn. The ceiling, at all costs, _had_ to be untainted and perfect. I had no interest in being corrected; I would not look at the ceiling.

"May I see the ceiling?"

The fragile girl's chin fell as she stared at me in amazement. "I haven't met a soul who ever knew about the beautiful ceiling. Since the plague, everyone moved out, and by the time people came back and I was offered a job here…"

Her voice trailed off, but I knew the rest of her sentence. The inn had lost its tenants rapidly during the revolting epidemic that no doctor could cure, or quarantine, for that matter. When the city repopulated, this girl was hired to attract residents again and help them get settled inn, but there were grander hotels being built, and no one cared to inhabit this gorgeous piece of art. Today's society did not want to live in a piece of art, but a luxury condominium with five-star room service.

"The ceiling," I reminded her.

Sorrowfully, she led me into the waiting room, where I strained to pin my eyes to that lovely, lofty ceiling with its paintings that mimicked Botticelli's and it's grandiose, mahogany arches. They matched the mantel of Mosaic's grand fireplace.

"_Mon Dieu_!" I cried. Not even a fraction of the splendor that that ceiling once bestowed remained; the plaster of the frescos was chipped and crumbling, leaving trails of dust where birds had flown in and pecked the fingers of both Adam and God away for their roost. I wished to crumple up on the weathered, marble floor that once hosted the rhythmic feet of dancers at so many festivals and balls; I longed to lie there and weep for my beautiful haven, my lover, of sorts, that I used to love and cherish with every piece of my fragmented soul. The sight of despair ripped my spirit into bits, because most of my contented youth was now infected with this new, ghastly vision. Only one other thing lingered on my mind.

"Is Marjorie still here?" I wondered aloud.


	2. Chapter Two: Que le Diable l’Emporte

**Chapter Two: Que le Diable l'Emporte**

The words, once again, shook the unstable ground beneath me. They carved their way through my body, leaving hollows in which to store their poison.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle?" I questioned, gravely.

She brushed pieces of ancient plaster from her manila apron ever so casually. The slow, leisurely movements tempted my patience, as well as my self control; my hands ached to strangle every single word from her lungs with brute force. I nearly did, when, finally, she reassured me. "Sir, Marjorie has been dead for some length of time, now."

That was all. The exquisite ceilings were obliterated, and mortality had won the race against beautiful, vociferous Marjorie. To an extent, I was glad that I never had to see her in a casket, her gorgeous, russet curls in a freefall around her porcelain neck, her hazel eyes sewn shut with the thread of eternity. Still, I felt the light of my hope sputter and asphyxiate, just as my exquisite bride and my beautiful refuge had suffocated in my absence.

Weighted down by my recent discoveries, I turned to leave, for there was nothing in London for me, presently. A plague of sinister death had already claimed everything important, exclusive, and borne to me monstrous things. Apartments and _châteaux_, although in fashion, never did satisfy me, though; _au revoir_, London, and all of England, for that matter.

Halfway to the door, though, and an objectionably kind, warm hand on my forearm prevented me from dashing headlong into the outside. The voice that it belonged to pleaded, "Stay a while, please, sir; it's been so long since I've had company."

_I wonder why_, I thought, glaring at the now-shoddy housing unit disgustedly. So many euphoric memories were now drugged with this bold, loathsome image. Why in God's name would I remain there for any length of time, even at a pretty girl's request?

"Certainly," I agreed in exasperation, not trying too hard to smile.

I sat down where she directed me, behind a dust-ridden coffee table, on a sunken, burgundy velvet sofa. It creaked under my weight, groaning as I shifted and got situated. My host sat lightly beside me, despite the furniture's belligerent protest. My mental accounts of lavish furnishings and décor were being substituted rapidly.

"Why do you stay in this filth?" I gestured towards the decrepit portraits and end tables.

The slender girl blushed, shrugging. "I love this place. Before that strange, wicked plague, my parents used to take me here for tea parties and grand dinners."

My heart softened for her. For a moment, I even felt horrible for the detestation I had woven into my tone. "I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes; very much so."

She studied my face with curious eyes of liquid amethyst. "Who are you?"

"No one of consequence, my dear."

"Give me your name, at least."

"Names are trivial."

"Oh, but they aren't!"

"Then tell me yours."

"Audrey Holcombe," she lied; the nanosecond of hesitation betrayed her truthful appearance. I didn't really know why she lied, but it was not important; I do not say things to hear the words articulated; names really are trivial.

"Then mine is Marcus Beaufort," I lied in return. How amusing that neither of us would surrender our real titles, but my name was as insignificant as anyone's. She had no business knowing it; the information served her no purpose.

"It's a nice name," she mused. She seemed to buy the idea. "A gentleman's name, I am sure."

"Of sorts," I admitted, calmly. The girl was making small talk, and I decided to be polite and reply accordingly. "My father was a respected physician, before the plague took him."

I remember the epidemic that swallowed him bit by bit, breath by breath. He could not even part his lips to explain the phenomenon, but his amber eyes gone wintry gave it all away. By the time _any_ useful doctor in England knew and believed in what the disease really was, it had already injected its lethal venom.

"I'm sorry; I suppose he couldn't treat the sickness," she apologized, reading my mind unintentionally.

I sighed, repeating myself aloud. "No one could cure it. I doubt even God himself could have done much to impede it."

Audrey, as she will be called, shivered. Probably out of remembrance of the vile, mirthless illness, but I felt as though she needed mundane warmth. Her lips were already a slight shade of purple with the frosty, winter midnight, and besides that, the thought of that fireplace ablaze seemed so inviting. Appealing.

Swiftly, I paced to the long smothered fire. I doubt that Audrey even noticed me rise from my place beside her. I found a pack of matches lying atop the dirt-encrusted mantle and struck one alight. But when I bent to set the half-burned logs, she cried out behind me, "I can't afford to burn a fire!"

I sat and watched, astonished at her exclamation, as the match burned down to my fingertips and smoldered there. Then, chuckling at how unimportant things like money were, I reached into my pocket and let a handful of coins fall upon the mantle. Clearly, this lady would freeze to death, rather than spend money on things she needed and could not manage to pay for.

I lit another match.

"You can't give me all that money!"

"Why not?"

"You simply mustn't!"

"But I must, mademoiselle."

"I won't take it."

An additional match down. I chose to reason with her. "So be it, miss, but I am leaving it there, and you have caused me to waste two matches already." I struck yet another. "Now, let me kindle this fire before we go about wasting another."

Slowly, I arranged the match in some of the smaller wood chips and gently blew. Within seconds, the Mosaic was closer to being more like herself again.

Audrey gasped when I rotated to face her in the light of the flames. Sadly, I knew exactly what she saw; I had seen it for myself in my friends, after the plague. My complexion would be pallid and vaguely iridescent, my eyes the most startling, spectacular hue of pearl grey.

"Do you enjoy what a fire reveals?" I smiled. "Or does it repulse you?"

I waited for her to regulate her breathing an answer. "Are you an angel?"

"Hardly!" I snorted in disagreement. Of everything I's ever been called, that, by far, was the most ridiculous. "_Que le Diable l'Emporte_."

"I don't understand, Marco."

"Perhaps not," I shrugged. "You don't need to."

"Don't I?" she said, hopefully.

"No," I confirmed, sternly. "You only need a fire to keep you warm. I am leaving to eat; save a room for me."

I said it as though a swarm of eager tenants was to flood the inn at any moment. We both knew that that era was long expired.


End file.
